What Is And What Should Never Be
by Wolf126
Summary: "In these Games, there are no winners. There is no glory." Explore an unnamed Mentor's thoughts as the latest Tributes of their District are Reaped. Fairly dark one-shot. You have been warned. Occurs prior to the events of 'The Hunger Games.'


_Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing. _The Hunger Games_ series belongs solely to Suzanne Collins._

_I found this piece on my hardrive and decided that I'd publish it so someone might enjoy it. It focuses upon the dark and inward thoughts of an unnamed mentor as their tributes are Reaped._

_Constructive criticism is welcome. No flames, please._

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**What Is And What Should Never Be**

**oOoOo**

In these Games, there are no winners. There is no glory. For what glory can be found in killing desperate children? What satisfaction?

If there are winners at all, they are the forgotten ones, the children whose names are quickly forgotten by the Capitol and all but their friends, their families. It is better (_is it not?_) to die abruptly, all in one breath, one second, than to suffer quietly through an entire lifetime. It is better for a candle to be blown out in a hurricane than allowed to flicker on and on and on, until, at last, one last gust of wind blows it out. Is it not?

That is what I believe as year after year, I am given new sacrifices to mentor, these children who cannot be saved. Because, in the end, even if your tribute wins by a miracle, one of your tributes is still dead. You still lose even when you win, but mostly you lose. And nothing—nothing in the entirety of the world—is going to change that. Does that even make sense?

Sometimes, the crushing weight of this series of losses makes me wish that I, too, was dead. To put an end to the accusative stares I see every time I close my eyes . . . Ah, peace at last. But, as always, I never find the strength to do anything about it. It is so easy to do nothing, and too difficult to do anything about the wrongness of these Games.

I am here when they are chosen, unlucky as they are, to have their names drawn out of hundreds. I sit on the edge of my seat, grimacing, as memories resurface of my own time spent in the crowd, chatting idly with my friends and classmates, before my entire life was thrown to the metaphorical wolves.

When their names are drawn and all eyes are immediately drawn to them, like moths to a flame, their faces belie their puzzlement, their disbelief. They heard their names called, but they simply cannot comprehend it. They don't _want_ to believe it. Then, when they notice the inquiring stares (people, chancing a look at the child who is going to die, one they might never see again in the crowd) and that an unnatural silence has fallen over the crowd, their faces pale and their eyes reflect what they are feeling. Disbelief. Fear. Anxiety. If they are young, their first instinct is to look for their parents' faces in the crowd, hopeful, pleading. If anyone can do something, it is them. But their parents simply stare back, heartbreakingly apologetic in their silence, their acceptance. Mothers often break into tears and have their husbands comfort them, all the while hanging their heads for the child that was already lost. The child often panics when they realize that no salvation is coming. No mercy waiting in the wings. Their parents are already apologizing for bringing them into the world, only to be taken away so violently and so publicly.

They approach the stage as a prisoner being led to his own execution—with heavy feet, a heavy heart, and resignation in their eyes. The time it takes to ascend the stairs lasts a lifetime, enough for them to realize that there is no hope. They are brought before the people as a sacrifice, one to die for their ancestors' mistake in defying the Capitol, and the people often respond with silence, quietly observing the latest child that they must give, as is defined by the Capitol's whims.

The announcer attempts to lighten the somber mood with occasional jokes, trying to prompt the crowd into breaking the unnatural silence. Then, they ask for the one thing—the _only_ thing—that could possibly save the child. They ask for volunteers.

In some districts, the strongest, most able children jump at the chance and volunteer enthusiastically. But, alas, in my district, as is in most, there are none. No volunteers. No martyrs. Because, in my district, doing so is a near-automatic death sentence. We aren't fit to fight. We're starved and frozen to the bone, too worse for wear.

The child-sacrifice stares forlornly, pleadingly, into the eyes of his or her fellows, begging for salvation, but, as is most often, none is forthcoming. The other children avoid his or her gaze, hang their heads, stare at the ground, and cannot bear to meet the eyes of the soon-to-be-dead child. Not even that child's so-called friends, which is a betrayal in itself.

It is not long before the representative from the Capitol carries on, recovers from the absence of volunteers, and continues the ceremony. At this point, the child seems to want nothing more than to melt through the floor and disappear out of sight, though floors are not in the habit of doing so. So it seems that even the floors have turned against them now. Is there no one on _their_ side?

Then, the representative draws for the second tribute and the child finds himself awaiting their fellow sufferer with baited breath. When the name is called, the second child's reaction is usually identical to the first. Disbelief. Fear. But they too approach the scaffold and size up their opponent (gone from innocent sacrifice to opponent in one singular moment).

As I watch this latest occurrence, I cannot help but ask myself: Is this fair? Is this justice?

But there are no answers forthcoming, and I am only left with silence.

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_Please, read and review to let me know what you think._


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